


The Fire That Dances On Fissures Of Forging Incomplete

by Zayrastriel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU from Season 3, I love plot twists, M/M, original character but not in the way you'd think
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:26:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zayrastriel/pseuds/Zayrastriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She doesn’t remember everything, but she remembers enough.  And so she screams; screams silent agony as she searches for the only people that can help her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Fire That Dances On Fissures Of Forging Incomplete

_Over there (a cemetery in Wyoming), they barely manage to get it all closed, can’t know what escaped in the five minutes when the gate was open._

_Demons, alright; that’s nothing new.  But if their dad got out (and they’re glad he did, so thankful that in all the shit that’s happened something’s gone right) then there’s no telling what else might have._

_And Dean’s sold his soul, and there’s a plague of hell-dwellers that they need to destroy while getting his soul back._

_But it’s alright.  It will be, somehow.  It always is._

Over here, in Parramatta, Australia, it’s not alright.

Because something else did come out, and if time is nothing to the supernatural then neither is space.  To linear travel this escapee doesn’t subscribe; so while the bullet flies towards Azazel, Kate remembers.

And she screams.

Because now she remembers, there’s no reason not to.

 

~

 

Memory isn’t linear either, and it’s not whole; it jumps back and forth between before time existed and 20-21st century Australia-America.

Between human and other.

_Contentment.  Happy.  Siblings (not brother nor sister because gender is mortal and so is sex) uncounted._

_Love._

_OR_

_A small family, in a home (not vast and unfathomable but love needs little space to thrive.)  Watching animals, entertaining vague notions of being a vet till the dream surfaces._

_Home._

Kate’s not screaming anymore, because her throat’s rubbed raw and red and she can’t see it but she _can_ , she can see every molecule of her body, every electric signal moving faster than light through her body transmitting a pain more than physical, more than emotional.

A spiritual pain, a soul-pain for a being that’s not physical or emotional anymore (not really but _yes, yes, my name is Kate and I’m an actress this isn’t happening_ -)

 _The conflict.  The suffering – all the pain and_ why _?_

 _Gabriel wants to leave, can I? but_ no _, can’t leave family-_

_The war._

_SORROWPAINANGER WHY._

_OR_

_Ignoring the doubt, the words of “sure you’re good enough?” “Risky, stupid”._

_Ignoring the self, the stuff above the soul that says “Maybe I’m not good enough” when the soul itself is saying “Good enough doesn’t matter, not important, never has been.”_

_New York._

_OR_

_Heaven._

_OR_

_A father, a mother, a brother._

_OR_

_Michael, Castiel, Zerachiel, Azazel(gone), Samael, Raphael, Crariel, Jophiel, Alastiel, Gabriel, Anael, RemielAzraelHestielUrielIniel (too many but not enough)_

_Father._

_Twenty four years of pain and struggle and friendship and_ feeling _._

_OR_

_Time stretching for aeons before everything began – contentment and placid joy and warmth and then_

_(doubt)_

_War and anger and fear._

_Silence._

~

She wakes up an eternity (ten minutes) later on the floor next to her bed; she must have fallen off sometime during the rush of broken memories and shattered self.

Her throat is fine, somehow. 

She doesn’t want to know how but as soon as she tries to push the thought away a whole onslaught of new ( _old_ ) memories bombard her, of being thrown into a fire by a bunch of crazy zealots in the fifth millennium B.C.E because it ( _she, she, she’s human and female_ )

“I’m Kate,” she says, but uncertainly.

Nevertheless, the words ring true.

She is Kate.

 _I am an angel_ , and the windows shatter around her.

Another sliver of memory comes to her and she strains after it – but nothing more beyond one word.

 _Archangel_.

And then,

 _I need help_.

And finally,

_Dean._

_Sam._

 

~

 

Her parents are confused, and rightly so, when Kate (or nameless, but Kate is who she has been for as long as she remembers/barely a second of her existence and she _doesn’t know anything else_ ) tells them with a forcedly cheerful grin that she misread her flight ticket, oops, silly her, she’s returning to New York _tomorrow_.

Kate carefully doesn’t think about the poor baby whose flight she stole, fingers flying faster than is humanly possible when she hacked her way into the QANTAS database in under half a minute.

 _Faster than is humanly possible_.

She spends the rest of the day forcing her brother to watch Glee with her again (the old episodes, the good ones with lots of adorable Klaine action before second half of season 3 came along and ruined the whole thing) and drags the whole family out to Max Brenners where she overdoses on chocolate till it makes her stomach hurt.

Or maybe that’s her mind.

It’s hard to differentiate from physical and soul-pain because both are as tangible as the other but Kate can feel everything that’s happening when she loses concentration and allows it in; every neuron, every throb of her heart, the whisper of blood in her veins,

(The realisation that it’s not necessary, that she doesn’t need the body but if she does that then she doesn’t know where she’ll go because she might have her Grace back but there’s something missing, like the majority of her powers, her memories, of the _it_ beneath the _her_.)

(She won’t be Kate anymore, just a disembodied confusion of images and pain and useless data.)

Kate can still sleep, though sleep comes early in the morning after three hours of lying flat on her back, staring at the ceiling.  She feels a slight flicker of relief as she sinks into unconsciousness.

 

And then the dreams start.

~

 

They’re not Kate’s dreams, though; they’re not about the really, really attractive tenor she’s been sort of casually seeing every so often in NYC.  They’re not of standing in the main theatre on Broadway and hearing resounding applause as her last note lingers in the air. 

They’re not her dreams, but she’s not just watching on the sidelines. 

She’s _in_ them, not her at all.

The first is a familiar face contorting in agony, sees another more familiar figure embracing the bodyandthen _she is the embraced and there’s a knife wound through her back and_ Dean, Dean, Dean _, I’m sorry Iloveyou_ -

A kiss _,_ and _sorry Sammy whatI’vegottado Iloveyou_ -

Forcing its way out of Hell, battered and bruised, _she/he sees her/his sons for what she/he knows is the lasttime don’t be guilty Iunderstandlove Mary Iloveyoubothalways be well,_

_Be safe._

_We got work to do._

When she wakes up, Kate tries to remember how to fold light and space and time around herself, how to move from here to _there_ , following a thread of shared experience that connects her to the Winchesters.

All that happens is she ends up in the bathroom with a resounding headache, and that’s actually sort of a good thing for when she starts throwing up.

 

~

 

It hurts her head to know what she is, and not know which one. 

So Kate doesn’t think about it.  The plane has a couple of _Vampire Diaries_ episodes so she watches those, and then the _True Blood_ , and she even forces her way through the first episode of season 3 of _Sherlock_ because it hurts her head enough to mask the rest of the pain.

 _Avengers 2_ is next, but she has to stop because it reminds her of Bree and that weird RPF Ara wrote once about she and Bree, living in New York together and living life the way they both wanted.

It’s not happening anymore.

 _I am Kate_ , she thinks, and _Archangel_.

It’s like two end pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, irreconcilable.

 

~

 

It’s hard to pull herself out of the production of _Les Mis_ _érables_ ,.  It’s even harder to say goodbye to all of her friends in a way that isn’t going to freak them out, and it’s not like she’s _dead_.

But something’s happening – God’s sake, the gate of Hell was broken open, and though her dreams are telling her it was closed, finally, she’s not stupid or selfish enough to think that that’s the end.  This is the beginning, and the flood of conversation between the Host is evidence of that.

She’s not stupid enough to open herself up to that, though; not with who she is ( _human_ ) and who she’s determined to stay if it kills her ( _Kate_ ).

Packing was something she’d thought would be harder than it turns out to be.  Kate has a _lot_ of stuff, but when it gets down to it she doesn’t take much.  Just things she needs – clothes, toiletries, basic makeup (angel or not she needs her makeup) – and things she _needs_.

Her guitar, her macbook.  That folder that’s sort of accumulated over the years full of letters and notes from family and friends.

The dagger her brother got her for her birthday; sentimental and useful, the best kind of packing.

Stealing a car is easiest of all, and Kate can’t even bring herself to feel bad about it as she drives away in the night, her _Phantom of the Opera_ soundtrack playing in the car.  She sings both the Phantom and Christine in the theme song, gets the E6, and feels a bit better.

Following Sam and Dean’s thread isn’t particularly hard.  It’s just kind of creepy, weird because the whole metaphysical spiritual thing doesn’t actually work when she tries to put it into the GPS on her iPhone, and most importantly, _long_.

Also, road-tripping by herself isn’t anywhere near as fun as she thought it was.

Kate does find them eventually though, about fifteen hours away in South Carolina.  By this point she’s had three people try to mug her as she was leaving diners and roadside cafés and getting into her car.

So maybe not all of her powers work, but a few do.

Kate’s not entirely sure what to think of that.

In any case, it’s a small suburban sort of thing where she finds them; not quite as big as Parramatta was, more like Quakers Hill with the quiet family feel.  It makes her curious as to what sort of monster the Winchesters are hunting this time.

She follows the thread to a motel, quiet with a _Vacancies_ sign that Kate’s not entirely sure is necessary, since it’s pretty obvious they don’t exactly have a waiting list.

Her hand trembles as Kate knocks, slow and tentative

Dean’s frowning when he opens the door and she can’t help comparing his face now to the one she saw a few months ago.  There are more lines on his skin, lines of weariness, and his eyes are tired, a strange mix of defeat and defiance.

Still, after a moment of confusion – _probably trying to figure out who I am_ – and a flicker of surprise – _it is pretty far from New York_ – he smiles at Kate the same way he did last time, warm, open, and flirtatious with the barest hint of arrogance.  “Didn’t get enough of me in New York?”

 _He’ll be fine_ , she thinks, feels bad for doubting.  “Hey,” Kate smiles tentatively, “um, I…I need some help.”

Another flicker of expression that’s too fast for her to catch and then he steps back, waves her in.

Kate’s two steps through the doorway when Sam lunges at her from the side and pins her by her shoulders to the door that Dean’s slammed shut, behind her.  Her hand scrabbles for the doorknob long enough to realise that it’s locked before Sam pulls her away, and Dean cuffs her hands behind her back.

 _Iron_ , the _it_ thinks with contempt as they push her towards a chair, sit her down, Sam still gripping tight while Dean loads a gun, _iron won’t hold me_.

Kate tries not to be scared (not for herself but them because God she’s not _human_ ), tries to stay calm while staring upwards through the barrel of the gun, eyes seeing past the dark and into the cold metal of the bullet.

“Alright,” Dean says calmly, “you’re not a demon or a spirit.  Not a shapeshifter or nightwalker, you’d be back to your natural form by now.  So what the hell are you?”

 _What the hell, ahaha that’s funny_. 

She bites down hysterics as she looks at the brothers, eyes wide.

Sam and Dean exchange a glance, some sort of brotherly-incesty signal that she doesn’t understand, and Sam sighs.  “Look, Kate,” he says gently, “we don’t want to hurt you.  We just need to know why you’re here and what you are.”

_Archangel._

“I’m human,” Kate whispers, which rings false when she’s not sure anything would ring true, like a slightly out of tune high note that never seems to sound right.  “I’m not going to hurt anyone,” she tries instead, and that resonates clear.

Dean snorts, disbelieving, and Sam shoots him a sideways glare.  “ _Dean_ ,” he hisses, and Dean rolls his eyes.

“Look, sweetheart,” he says, not unkindly, “maybe you don’t know, maybe you do.  But you don’t think we’d find it strange that you manage to get rid of that thing in New York, and then two weeks after someone opens the fucking gate to _Hell_ , you rock up asking for help?”

“Please.”

That’s all she says.

There’s a tense silence, during which she half imagines Dean is just going to do it, prove that knowing he’s going to Hell in a year is too much for him. 

Kate doesn’t know if it’ll kill her or not, and she doesn’t know which option scares her more.

But finally, slowly, he lowers the gun; nods to Sam, who comes forwards and reaches behind her back, unlatching the handcuffs.  “I’ll get you some water,” he says awkwardly, backing away.

Hoisting himself up onto the table in front of her, Dean places his gun down next to him – close enough, she supposes, that if she does something bizarre like sprouting claws or growing wings ( _too accurate, don’t go there_ ) he’ll be ready.

“Alright,” Dean says wearily when Sam returns, handing her a glass of water.  “Talk.”

And she does.

 

~

 

Dean doesn’t believe her at first (and she can’t blame him).  Neither does Sam but at least he’s quiet about it.  But eventually the relentless disbelief gets annoying enough that Kate finally rolls her eyes and stands up.

“Where are you going?” Dean asks hastily, fingers twitching towards the gun.

“You don’t believe me?  Fine,” she snarls.  “Believe _this_ at least.”

On the upside, the light time folding space thing hurts slightly less, by which she means that she doesn’t throw up.  On the downside, Kate travels even less than last time, all of about three metres.

Judging by their expressions, that doesn’t mean anything.

“How did…” Sam begins slowly.

Kate shakes her head and regrets it straight away.  “You don’t want to know,” she answers through gritted teeth; her Grace might be able to comprehend light and space and time and mushing it all up like a bad Glee mash-up, but her mind, the one that associates teleportation with sci-fi, doesn’t get it.  Doesn’t like it.  And her body doesn’t _believe_ it.

Dean’s watching her with narrowed eyes.  “That doesn’t prove anything,” he says slowly, but uncertainly.  “And aren’t you supposed to have, I dunno, wings or something?”

 _Do I_?

“I told you,” she says, collapsing back into the chair with an inward sigh of relief.  “I don’t know.  I don’t know _anything_.”

“ _Right_ ,” and okay why did she think Dean was the more attractive Winchester?   Because he’s a _douche_.  “So you know about my demon deal and Sammy…” his voice falters “…dying and the gates to Hell opening, and you can teleport and shit, but you don’t know anything that might actually be useful.  Like your _name_.”

“Dean, stop it,” Sam says firmly. 

“No, you’re right.  I’m sorry.  But…”  Her _name_.  Part of her soul, one of the parts that isn’t there anymore.  “I was trying to figure it out on the plane here, but…” Kate rubs a hand against her forehead wearily.  “I don’t know.”

She looks up at the Winchesters, wonders if her past couple of days is their _life_.  “It doesn’t matter,” Kate says firmly.  “I’m Kate, okay?  Just because I can, you know, do things…” she waves her right hand aimlessly.

The room blacks out.

Out of the darkness Kate hears Dean’s tentative, “you don’t suppose you can undo them too?  Only because we’re sort of broke right now-“

“When are we _not_?” Sam mutters, then “ _Ouch_!  _Dean_!”

“And we don’t have money for repairs.”

“Um.”  She raises the other hand.  Makes another aimless gesture while thinking about the lights.

Something explodes in a burst of electricity.

“Um.  Sorry?” she tries over the sound of Dean swearing.

 

~

 

After some more half-hearted protestations from Dean – something about lights that Sam replies to with a comment that makes her want to leave the room from both second-hand embarrassment and her inherent fangirl – they come to the general consensus that the best thing would be for her to stay with them (“ _only until you get everything sorted and hightail it back to Heaven_ ,” Dean added.)

She’s sleeping on one of the two queen beds, facing away from where Sam and Dean are whispering softly, sprawled next to each other, limbs overlapping (something she didn’t want to see but did, once again in the spirit of that fangirl instinct that practically insists on staring at two attractive guys together if she’s got the opportunity.)

About two hours after the whispers have died away to be replaced by deep, steady breathing, Kate _feels_ it.

Quietly, so as not to wake either of them, she eases herself out of bed; thinks vaguely about pulling on some proper clothing but then dismisses the thought.

If she’s right, no one who cares will see her.

 

~

 

The angel’s wearing the body of a thirty-something year old man, a face that the actress in her thinks would have been easily expressive with its actual owner resting stiff and unmoving. 

“Archangel,” the angel acknowledges with a brief nod.

Another sliver of memory.

_Family._

_Castiel_ , it whispers and the earth shifts beneath her feet.

“Careful.”  A flicker of alarm crosses the vessel’s face.

 _Right.  Archangel.  Stupid voice._   “Castiel,” she whispers.  “It’s good to see you again.”

And battered, fragmented memories or not, that at least is true.


End file.
